The Last Dovah
by Poseidon321
Summary: 60 years after the fall of Alduin, the Dragonborn met his match with another Dovah and was slain. Normally it would have been the other way around, but this one was different. Nobody knows how. But a young 'Conspiracy Investigator' wants to find out. He ends up finding a Dragon and working with it to find clues of the next Dragonborn, and discover what nobody could have thought.
1. A Search for Information

Merek

The mug slammed down on the wooden table, drawing the attention of everyone in the Bannered Mare. Mead was now spilled everywhere. A heavily armed and bearded Nord had an angry expression, yet the hooded man he was talking to wasn't fazed.

"I told you, I don't know! The Last Dragonborn died a century ago! The only luck you'll have is reading the books, and studying the scenarios the Dragonborn usually shows up in. For the last one it was Alduin. An intelligent man like you should be able to figure that out." the Nord yelled.

It just so happened that the hooded man didn't take kindly to being yelled at. Before anything else happened, the Nord warrior was down on the ground, clutching his side. He was greeted with a knife stabbed through his hand, and howled with pain.

"I'm not looking for the Dragonborn. I'm looking for the last Dragon. The one that had a Thu'um so powerful it was able to kill anything that came its way. That is the one who killed the Dragonborn. Do you know about that?" the hooded man asked. The Nord struggled to respond, and looked at his interrogator's face.

"Merek? Merek Plague-Scream? You son of a bitch! I…. The Dragon's name is Strun-ah-gaaf or Storm Ghost Hunter in our language. He was spotted in the Northern Mountains. The only way to get there is a special carriage in Morthal, who's driver is a Mage called Vjorlam. Visit him, and you'll get to Strunahgaaf. Is that what you want?"

Merek pulled his hood off, revealing a Breton who had scars everywhere and lightly colored skin similar to that of a Nord. "Yes, it is. Thank you." He said as he swiftly pulled the knife out of the Nord's hand, and hurried out of the bar.

The Interrogator left Whiterun and called his horse. The black stallion rushed up to him and stood by while he was mounted. Morthal was a long journey, so he would have to ride fast if he had a chance at making good time. However there was something about the Nord he had talked to that was out of place. It seemed like bad luck, but Merek knew better than to trust that.

He mounted his horse and made haste to the snowy, barren city of Morthal. This would be a long ride.

Strunahgaaf

Icy cold winds of Skyrim's Northern Mountains battered against Strunahgaaf's ancient gray face. He was immortal, like all Dov were, yet age still effected his looks. He was 4,000 years old, but had killed the Dovahkiin only 100 years ago. That was a day he regretted, as the people of Skyrim loved their _Hun_, their Hero. Groups of soldiers had come to avenge the Dragonborn and kill Strunahgaaf, the Last Dovah once and for all. None had proved successful, and the Dragon had slaughtered every single soldier the Jarls sent after him.

Eventually Skyrim gave up. Nobody cared anymore, even though they mourned the loss of the Dragonborn. The dragon had gone into hiding for a while, contemplating what to do for the next 1,000 years. Strunahgaaf decided to search for a mortal with significant Thu'um to be a challenge, yet the only one who presented that was the Dovahkiin, whom the Dovah had killed years before.

Strunahgaaf stretched his neck and wings before positioning himself properly to take off. It had been at least 3 days since he had flown, and needed to be ready. The Dovah pointed his head to the sky, and shouted louder than mostly anything.

"DREM YOL LOK, KEIZAAL! KRUZIIK VOND ZEIM HIN LOK ONT EINZUK" the skies trembled from Strunahgaaf's powerful voice and a bellowing roar followed shortly. Then finally, he flapped his massive wings and ascended unto the rising Sun.


	2. A Cult Dedicated to the Contrary

Merek

It was absolutely freezing riding a horse in the subzero wind. _It seemed impossible to brave this weather_, thought Merek. Yet the Nords did it on a daily basis. Merek hailed from High Rock, and it was much warmer there than in this frozen wasteland. Both he and his horse were fatiguing greatly. It was taking much longer than he expected and the snow wasn't helping in any way.

He thought back to his homeland, High Rock. Before the war of the Five Kingdoms, his family was part of the middle-class merchant society. His father had been content with selling goods from other parts of Tamriel. It had been an interesting job; the best part was definitely the customers. They were all so interesting. However Merek's father lived by a code: He wanted nothing more but peace and a promising future for their children. During the war, he and his family descended into poverty. The kingdom's need of equipment surpassed any want of Merek's father's goods. Nothing was selling. Merek's father became a miner.

Merek had fallen to a stunning blue-eyed girl named Kaiya, and they spent most of their time together. He lost his chasteness to her, and wanted to stay with her for the rest of his days. However because of the hard times, Merek never got to say goodbye before he was forced across the border to Skyrim. Merek wished none of this had ever happened.

The faint buzz of an arrow brought the Breton back into the moment. He sped up his horse, attempting to weave through the storm of arrows. Merek escaped, but the horse wasn't as lucky. An arrow pierced its front leg, making it fall forward and sending Merek skidding across the icy earth. He felt a sharp pain in his back as he slid over many rocks, and finally smashing his head into a hardy oak tree.

Merek's vision blurred from the impact, but he tried to shake it off and looked wildly around for the source of the attack. Suddenly, there was a loud "ARGHH" and a giant green hand pummeled the tree, where the Breton's head was seconds before. _Orcs aren't that good with bows, so there must be someone else_, Merek thought. But, it was an Orc. And this one looked like he was part of a structured cult, not a bandit.

With his hands shaking, the Breton drew his sword quickly. It wasn't fast enough. The Orc flicked the sword out of Merek's hand and let out a roar. Merek swiftly struck at the Orc's cheekbone with the palm of his hand, but it did absolutely nothing. Suddenly Merek found himself being hauled into the air by the well-founded grip of the Orc. The sudden slam into the ground disoriented the Breton. He realized the danger, and leapt out of the way of a descending fist. Standing up, he prepared himself to attack.

Merek jolted towards the Orc and jumped up at his opponent, throwing out a kick towards the side of the Orc's face. The blow connected and he heard a loud crack. He followed up with a solid leg sweep, dumping the mighty Orc into a pile of snow. But that still wasn't enough. The beast stood up quickly, and delivered a crescent kick to Merek's side, cracking a rib and sending the Breton sliding on the ground, grunting. The Orc stumbled on some rocks and fell over before reaching his victim. He pushed his chest out began to gloat.

"You think a small fighter like you could take me on? I'm an Orc! We were bred to fight! I'm going to crush you, and you won't be able to stop it." He laughed. Merek weakly turned his head towards the Orc, and yelled something only a select few could.

"FUS RO DAH!" the magical power of the dragon language sent the Orc flying into the air a good 20 feet away. As he flew a Saber-Cat gracefully leapt and caught the Orc in between its teeth. The Saber-Cat met Merek's gaze as if to say _it's your lucky day_. The Breton scrambled up, retrieved his sword and took off running. That was a frightening battle, and he needed to get away to rest. Morthal was at least another 10 miles. He couldn't make it there on foot without freezing to death. He would have to find rest. A snowstorm was picking up, and that was bad news.

Luckily, there was a small carving into the side of the hill. That meant a cave, where Merek could light a fire and relax. He slowly entered the cave, igniting the sick he had with a small fire spell. The cave didn't go back that far, but it still held room for a bedroll. Merek retrieved some rocks and a few sticks outside the cave. He placed the sticks in the circular rock formation, and set it ablaze. Finally, he lay down, closing his eyes.

No, Merek was not the Dragonborn. He had just dedicated himself to learning, and was taught by Arngeir, now the only Greybeard. However the time to learn just one word of power took an infinite amount of time to him, so he decided to just maximize his skill in one shout: Unrelenting force.

The other Greybeards had not died. They commended their souls to Arngeir, so he could stay alive to teach those willing to follow the Way of the Voice. The Grandmaster seemed considerably unhappy now that his fellow Masters were gone. Even Paarthurnax wasn't there; the Elder Dovah had been slain by the Blades.

But sadness couldn't stop Merek on his search. If there was a chance of stopping this rogue dragon, this _Strunahgaaf_, and finding the next Dragonborn, Merek would do it. The fate and welfare of Skyrim was in Merek's hands. The people were so morbid Cyrodiil could easily invade Skyrim and take over. It would be like taking a Septim from a drunken man. If Merek could inspire the people by showing there still is hero, there would be hope for Skyrim.

With thoughts of triumph, Merek drifted off to sleep.

A/N: The Heroes will meet in the next chapter! Please write a review and I hoped you enjoyed this installment.


End file.
